


Perfect Shadows

by LittlebutFiery



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Post-Promised Day, more tags to be added later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-03-21 05:10:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13733823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittlebutFiery/pseuds/LittlebutFiery
Summary: When an Ishvalan insurrection threatens Fuhrer Roy Mustang's fledgling reign, it will take everything he and his team have to protect the things that matter most to them.





	1. Spark of Rebellion

**Author's Note:**

> My first multi-chapter FMA fic! MASSIVE, UNDYING THANKS to natsora, who helped me brainstorm this fic and then beta'd it. You're a wonderful human and this fic wouldn't exist without you.

The cheers of the crowd were deafening, even through the closed balcony doors. Mustang fidgeted with his epaulets, straightening them in the mirror for the hundredth time.

“You’ve been checking out your reflection longer than Becca does before we go out,” Havoc said, taking wicked glee in Mustang’s nerves. “Relax, sir.”

“This is my first public appearance as Fuhrer,” Mustang argued. “It has to be perfect.”

“Nothing’s perfect, sir, even you,” Hawkeye said, handing Mustang his hat. “The parade’s about to start. Are you ready?”

_ No _ , Mustang thought weakly, though he managed a strong, “Of course.”

Hawkeye’s lips curved in a smile – she knew him far better than that. “Come on, let’s go then. Your people are waiting.”

She threw open the balcony doors, the crowd’s cheering only growing louder, and headed outside with the rest of Team Mustang in tow. Mustang hesitated, legs suddenly refusing to move.

He had wanted this for years upon years, nearly sacrificed everything and everyone for this. Why, then, was he so damn  _ nervous? _ It was just a parade, a celebration of the triumph on the Promised Day several years prior. All he had to do was smile and wave and give a speech Hawkeye had written for him.

Mustang slipped a hand into his pocket, feeling relieved that the paper Hawkeye had so carefully slaved over was still with him.

* * *

 

_ She sat at her desk in her office, pen scribbling quickly across the paper as she wrote the grandiose words Mustang was to deliver at the parade the next day. _

_ Music was playing on the phonograph he’d given her as a gift upon her promotion to captain after the Promised Day. It was beautiful music, full of sweeping lines and gorgeous countermelodies, the kind of music one would expect a perfect, elegant woman like Riza Hawkeye to listen to. _

_ Hawkeye hummed along to the music as she wrote, a contented smile on her face. It had been years since Mustang had seen her smile like that. They had been children then, ridiculous children stealing kisses in the shadows when her oblivious father hadn’t been working Mustang ragged. _

_ Did she still dream of those days, the way he did? _

_ “Am I dreaming, or are you actually  _ happy _ to be doing my work?” Mustang teased as he walked into the room. _

_ Hawkeye looked up, setting her pen down. “Someone’s got to do it, and of the two of us, you don’t have a way with words.” _

_ Mustang gasped in mock offense. “You wound me, Major.” _

_ “Better me than the papers,” Hawkeye replied. “We both know this speech has to be perfect, or the reporters will eviscerate you.” _

_ “Good thing you’re writing it then,” Mustang replied, sauntering over to her. _

_ “Am I mistaken, or is that praise?” Hawkeye asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow. _

_ “I tell you you’re perfect, and you’re skeptical?” Mustang shook his head. “You used to believe me when I said that.” _

_ “You used to mean it,” Hawkeye replied quietly. _

_ “I still do,” Mustang retorted. _

_ There was a spark, just for a moment, the air between them practically crackling with electricity, with his need for her. Did she feel the same? No…she had moved on. _

_ Hawkeye smiled. “You’re too kind, sir. Now, did you come in here just to distract me, or did you need something?” _

* * *

 

It wasn’t hard. He just had to take a dozen steps from the mirror to the balcony. And yet, his feet felt like lead. His fingers worried the edge of the paper in his pocket as he tried to will himself forward.

“You look like you’re about to wet yourself,” an irritatingly familiar voice from behind him said. “You big baby.”

“Brother! That’s the Fuhrer you’re talking to!” a much more welcomed voice said, scandalized.

Mustang slowly turned around to face the Elric brothers. He hated to admit it, but in the last few years Ed had grown nearly as tall as him, while Al towered over both of them.

“I’m glad  _ one _ of you has a semblance of propriety,” Mustang grumbled.

Ed laughed. “Just because you got a promotion doesn’t mean you’re not the same old Colonel Bastard we all know and hate.”

Despite himself, Mustang smiled. “Good to see you too, Fullmetal. Alphonse.”

“Thank you for inviting us,” Al said, beaming.

“As much as I would like to pretend Fullmetal didn’t have anything to do with it, we would have lost on the Promised Day without you. It was only fitting you were here for the parade,” Mustang replied.

“This makes up for you not inviting us to your coronation,” Ed scowled. “Jerk.”

“I was not in charge of the guest list!” Mustang argued.

“Anyway, Winry and May send their love. Winry’s due any day now, so we didn’t think traveling would be good for her,” Al interrupted, eager to keep the peace.

“So this parade better not take forever!” Ed said. “I want to be there for her.”

“Fullmetal, you  _ do _ have a heart!” Mustang said in mock surprise, all his nerves forgotten. “I may die of shock.”

“Laugh it up, asshole,” Ed scowled. “At least I admitted I love Winry. I haven’t seen you and Hawkeye make it official yet.”

Mustang flushed bright red and opened his mouth to argue before Al intervened again, with a timid, “We have a parade to watch, right?”

The young Fuhrer straightened and sighed, “Yes, we do.”

With that, he reluctantly turned and led the way to the balcony where the rest of his team waited, Al and Ed in tow.

Despite his nerves, he smiled as he took in his team’s grins and boisterous excitement over the parade. They’d been thrilled when he told them about it, he recalled, even as his fingers still restlessly toyed with the corners of Hawkeye’s speech.

* * *

 

_“They say this is going to be the biggest party Central has thrown in years!” Havoc grinned. “A parade…a banquet…an afterparty…we’re going to be treated like kings!”_ _  
_ _  
__“About damn time,” Breda grumbled._ _  
_ _  
__“This is about the people of Amestris,_ not _about you,” Hawkeye scowled._ _  
_ _  
__“Last I checked, I’m a person of Amestris,” Havoc replied innocently. The rest of the men snorted with laughter._ _  
_ _  
__“I expect you to behave,” Mustang warned._ _  
_ _  
__“Like the little angels we are,” Breda chuckled._ _  
_ _  
__“I think I’m going to invite Sheska!” Fuery blurted out, cheeks red._ _  
_ _  
__“Our little Fuery’s growing up!” Breda laughed. Fuery turned an even deeper scarlet._ _  
_ _  
__“I can top that,” Havoc said, pulling a small box from his pocket and tossing it in the air before catching it. “I’m gonna propose to Becca.”_ _  
_ _  
__“With your luck, she’ll say no,” Falman teased. Havoc scowled._ _  
_ _  
__“This is serious,” Mustang cut back in. “I need you all at your best. This is our first public appearance since my coronation and your promotions. We can’t make ourselves look like fools.”_ _  
_ _  
__“You’ve got Hawkeye,” Havoc said. “You don’t need us. She’ll make you look great.”_ _  
_ _  
__Hawkeye shook her head, the faintest blush on her cheeks. “We’re a team, Jean. That means we_ all _have to play our parts.”_ _  
_ _  
__“Yeah, yeah,” Havoc waved her off._ _  
_ _  
__Mustang smiled despite himself as the team dissolved into their normal good-natured bickering and taunting. For all his desire to be the perfect Fuhrer, the image of propriety and dignity, he still wouldn’t trade his ragtag team for anything. They had become more than his chess pieces – they were parts of his very being._ _  
_ _  
__They probably weren’t going to behave themselves at the afterparty, if they could even hold it together at the parade. Between Breda’s alcohol tolerance, Havoc’s imagined tolerance, Fuery’s nonexistent tolerance, and Falman’s amusement at his friends’ antics, something inappropriate and mortifying was probably going to happen._ _  
_ _  
___Thinking about it, though, there were worse things.

_ He’d played enough chess to know that a king without its comrades was nothing. _ _   
_

* * *

 

“I was just about to come get you,” Hawkeye said, offering Mustang the smallest of reassuring smiles. “They’re ready to start the parade.”

Mustang gave her a falsely confident smile, clutching her speech for courage. “Let’s get started, then.”

As the first of the Briggs tanks began to roll down the street, flanked on either side by cheering civilians waving Amestrian flags, Mustang felt a foreboding feeling that he couldn’t shake. Perhaps it was paranoia, from years of political and military intrigue, or nerves, but his stomach was twisted into knots as one thought ran circles through his mind.

_ Something bad is about to happen _ .

A gentle touch at his shoulder startled him back to reality. Hawkeye was by his side, as she always was, looking up at him with concern in her amber eyes. The others were half-hanging over the balcony railing, waving and cheering at their friends in the parade down below, but she was there, aware while everyone else was oblivious.

“Roy,” she breathed, her voice barely audible. “It’s all right.”

He nodded, swallowing hard. Her grip on his shoulder tightened for a moment before she released him, promising again, “It’s all right.”

Mustang took a step forward, towards the railing, taking a bit of twisted pleasure in seeing the dour look on Olivier Armstrong’s face as she led her soldiers down below.

Across the street, a glint in a window caught his attention for the briefest of moments before Havoc slung an arm around Mustang’s shoulders, pushing him to the front of the crowd by the railing. The crowd cheered, eager for their leader’s speech. He swallowed hard, pulling out the now-worn piece of paper and looking down at the parade.

A sharp crack rang out.

Pain shot through his shoulder and he cried out, stumbling backwards, his free hand pressed to the injury. He pulled it away and saw his white glove stained crimson.

From the street below, someone screamed.

The next few seconds seemed to take an eternity, everyone moving as though in slow motion or underwater, sound and sight distorted. Through the shattered window across the street, Mustang could clearly see the barrel of a sniper rifle, aimed square at him.

Hawkeye let out a cry of alarm, the words lost to Mustang’s pain-deafened ears as she raced towards him, grabbing him around his torso. She threw him to the ground, shielding his body with her own as she shouted orders at the shell-shocked men.

Havoc produced a gun from seemingly nowhere, returning fire at the sniper, while Breda and Fuery helped Hawkeye drag Mustang into the safety of the room. Their words were garbled as Mustang groaned in pain, but their voices were tense and worried.

Breda pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, pressing it to Mustang’s injured shoulder, but it did little to stem the flow of blood – a pool was rapidly growing on the tile floor beneath the Fuhrer. Mustang dully wondered if the blood was going to ruin the speech his faithful subordinate had so carefully prepared for him.

All he could hear was Havoc’s gunfire and the screams of the crowd, making his head pound. His eyelids drooped…it felt so easy to just go to sleep and let his team deal with the chaos…

_ Smack! _

His eyes shot open at the slap from Hawkeye; his senses cleared somewhat. He could hear her saying, “…not today, sir. We’ve been through this much together, you’re not dying on me today.”

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Fuery said, worried.

Hawkeye nodded, eyes dark with fear and anger. “Get him to a hospital.”

“What about you?” Breda asked.

“I’m going after the bastard,” Hawkeye replied, cocking her pistol.

Mustang feebly grabbed her wrist, silently begging her to stay. This wound was life-threatening, he could tell – he’d seen enough men bleed to death in Ishval from what had seemed like innocuous wounds. If he was to die, he wanted her there with him till the end. She’d promised him that much.

Hawkeye hesitated, eyes locked on the bloody fingers clasped around her delicate wrist. After a moment, though, her face went cold and she shook off his grip, saying, “I can’t stay, sir. The boys have got you. I need to do this.”

With this she turned and ran towards Havoc and the Elrics, where Al was creating a bridge from the balcony to the sniper’s nest.

The last thing Mustang saw before his eyes drifted shut was Hawkeye’s back, vanishing into the building across the street, before gunfire cut through his dulled senses.

Then, darkness.


	2. Bird of Prey

There weren’t many things that could rattle Riza Hawkeye’s nerves, make her heart pound and hands tremble.

The sight of her beloved commander bleeding out on a marble floor was one of those things.

Fuery and Breda would get him to a hospital in time, she knew it. They had to.

The alternative…she wouldn’t consider it. Couldn’t consider it.

That wasn’t the final time she’d see Roy Mustang alive.

As she chased the would-be assassin, trailing just behind the Elric brothers, Hawkeye was starting to understand the vicious way Mustang had pursued Hughes’ killer. Someone had taken something precious from him, and he was angry, furious beyond words, desperate for blood to repay blood.

Now, her commander’s lifeblood smeared on her arm, the only thing Hawkeye wanted was to kill the sniper who’d shot Mustang, who’d tried to take away the life she valued above even her own.

Blood repays blood. Equivalent exchange. Whatever principle anyone wanted to apply was fine by her. She was going to make this person hurt.

She flew across the bridge Al had created, keenly, painfully aware that every step took her further and further from her dying Fuhrer. Her blood ran like ice as she ran, a vice tight around her chest, and yet nothing slowed her flight. A hawk always gets her prey – this hawk was no different.

Shards of broken glass crunched underfoot as she ran through the destroyed hotel room that had served as the sniper’s nest. The sniper rifle was abandoned on the ground, looking nearly harmless instead of the vicious weapon of war it was.

Hawkeye ran into the hallway, eyes scanning frantically for any clue of her quarry. Far down the corridor Ed’s ridiculous red coat was vanishing around a corner. She took off after them.

She couldn’t lose them. _Wouldn’t_ lose them.

She ran as though Mustang’s life depended on it, as though capturing his would-be assassin would solidify his tenuous grip on survival. His life was in Fuery’s and Breda’s hands now; she could do nothing for him.

Being helpless was not a feeling Riza Hawkeye cared for, so down, down, she shoved the feeling, ignoring the churning of her stomach and the pounding of her heart. The only thing she could do for her commander was to catch the man who’d tried to murder him.

So she would.

Mustang had always shown her loyalty and courage under fire. _He_ had shown _her_ loyalty, _her_ , his subordinate. He’d never had to give her a damn thing, but that had never stopped him. She’d be damned if she did any less for him.

* * *

  _“Hawkeye!” Mustang cried, watching her fall with a bullet to the arm. He ran to her, calling, “Riza!”_

_“I’m fine!” Hawkeye snapped back, though the tears welling in her eyes said otherwise. It was her first injury in Ishval – one she should have anticipated, no less. She’d gotten cocky, gotten careless, and now her commander was down a sniper._

_“You’re hurt,” Mustang replied gently, helping her sit up before examining the wound. It was small and clean, with less blood than she expected, but painful. “We need to get you to a medic.”_

_“I’m fine!” Hawkeye insisted again, trying to push him away._

_Hughes came running up to them, alarmed. “Sergeant Hawkeye! Are you all right?”_

_“Hughes, get her to the medic,” Mustang ordered, ripping a strip of fabric from his overcoat and tying it around Hawkeye’s injury. “We don’t want this to get infected.”_

_Hawkeye met Hughes’ eyes before the man asked the question they both had. “What about you?”_

_“I’m going to find the bastard responsible for this,” Mustang replied grimly, tugging his ignition gloves on. “And make them hurt.”_

_“Sir, it’s just a minor injury,” Hawkeye shook her head as Hughes helped her to her feet. “I’m hardly worth going on a killing spree over…”_

_Mustang’s dark eyes were cold, terrifyingly cold, as he turned to look at Hawkeye. “You’re one of my subordinates, Sergeant. I take care of my people.”_

_He turned to Hughes. “You heard me. Get her to the doctor.”_

_With this he strode off, hands clenched into fists, ready to obliterate anything in his path._

* * *

 Hawkeye ran on, fury only heightened by the memory.

Mustang had returned, covered in blood – some his own – to the infirmary hours later, grim satisfaction but little pleasure on his face. Hawkeye wasn’t proud to admit it, but she had thrown her arms around him and sobbed at his safe return, at knowing he’d kill for her just as mercilessly as she would for him.

They’d kissed, too, tasting of tears and gunpowder and ash, so relieved the other was safe that they’d let the feelings of their youth resurface, just for a moment. It was a desperate, bittersweet thing, the last kiss they’d shared.

Hawkeye ignored the lump in her throat as a cruel addendum snaked its way into her thoughts.

_The last kiss they’d_ ever _share._

She shook her head, clearing her mind of the insidious thought. There would be time to agonize over her relationship with Mustang later. For now, her thoughts were turned back to revenge.

She was closing in on the assassin, close enough that she could hear Ed call to Al, “Just when I thought life was going to get boring!”

“Brother, this isn’t fun and games,” Al snapped back, casting a glance at the woman just paces behind them. “Fuhrer Mustang could die.”

“Colonel Bastard’s too stubborn to die like that,” Ed waved him off. “Right, Major?”

Hawkeye couldn’t bring herself to speak. A part of her knew that Ed was trying to soothe her fear and fury – but that was overshadowed by the bloodlust pulsing through her veins.

Instead, she ran faster, passing the brothers and flying down the stairs the assassin had fled down.

He was fast, but she was faster, a bird of prey swooping in on silent wings. Only a level of the spiral staircase separated her from him – close enough that she could get a clean shot, even with a pistol.

She skidded to a stop, raised her gun, aimed…

_Crack!_

…the assassin ducked but kept running, unscathed.

Hawkeye swore as she pushed herself back into a sprint. The Hawk’s Eye, they called her. She’d earned her reputation by slaughtering innocents through a scope.

Why, then, could she not meet her mark when it counted?

On she ran, down, down, down the stairs, desperate to catch back up. Behind her, she could no longer hear the Elrics. She was the only chance they had to catch the bastard.

She had to make it count.

* * *

_“Stop it, that tickles!” Riza protested with a laugh, playfully pushing Roy away, nearly pushing him off her bed._ _  
__  
_ _“Mmm,” Roy hummed, brushing his lips along Riza’s neck again anyway. “I didn’t know you were ticklish.”_ _  
__  
_ _“You need to shave if you’re going to do this,” Riza scowled, scarcely meaning it. If she was being honest, she_ liked _the feeling of his faint stubble against her skin._ _  
__  
_ _“We’ve only got the weekend until your father is back,” Roy replied. “I didn’t want to waste a second of time with you.”_ _  
__  
_ _“When did you turn into a sap?” Riza laughed._ _  
__  
_ _“When I first saw you,” Roy replied, pressing feather-light kisses to her neck, up her jaw, along her cheek, before finally meeting her lips._ _  
__  
_ _There was nothing better, Riza decided in that moment, than kissing Roy,_ really _kissing him, not worrying about her father catching them making out in the shadows. Those were desperate, rough kisses born more of lust than anything – the seemingly inevitable result of two teenagers living in close quarters._ _  
__  
_ _This was different. Their lips moved slowly against each other, relishing in the taste and feel of the other. Roy’s hand slid up her side, under her shirt, coming to cup her breast through her bra._ _  
__  
_ _Riza moaned into his mouth, pulling him down on top of her and grinding her hips into his. She could feel him through his trousers, harder than he was probably willing to admit._ _  
__  
_ _She reached for his belt buckle, and suddenly the warmth of his hand on her chest was gone, instead clasped around her hand. He pulled away from her, shaking his head with a firm, “No, Riza.”_ _  
__  
_ _“But…” she protested weakly._ _  
__  
_ _“I care about you. More than I know how to say. I…feel like I’m taking advantage of you,” Roy said, voice thin._ _  
__  
_ _“Because you’re the only interesting thing to ever happen here?” Riza laughed despite the butterflies in her stomach. “Roy, I…”_ _  
__  
_ _“Maybe when we’re older, then,” Roy cut her off. “But…not now. You’re the best thing to ever happen to me. I don’t want to ruin anything.”_ _  
__  
_ _Riza nodded, reluctantly seeing his point. Roy smiled, leaning back down to press a chaste kiss against her reddened lips. “Thank you, Riza. Thank you for understanding.”_ _  
___  
She smiled and kissed him again, the words she had been about to say all but forgotten.

* * *

Hawkeye cursed and shook her head, desperately willing the memories of happier times out of her head. She didn’t need to remember what she’d almost said to Mustang, before rank and duty and war happened to them.  
  
She needed to run faster, dammit!  
  
The assassin disappeared around a corner. Hawkeye grit her teeth, willing herself faster before he was gone for good.  
  
She rounded the corner to find the man on the ground, Edward Elric’s boot on his throat. The young alchemist was yelling, “Who sent you? Why did you shoot the Fuhrer?”  
  
The assassin laughed. “You think you can scare me into talking? You’re as pathetic as the dog you call Fuhrer.”  
  
“Tell me, dammit!” Ed roared, pressing harder on the man’s throat.  
  
“Brother, that’s not going to help!” Al protested. He looked up and saw Hawkeye running up to them. “Right, Major?”  
  
Hawkeye narrowed her eyes, sickened by the cocky smirk on the assassin’s tan face. “Torture him, if you want. I won’t stop you.”  
  
Fear flashed through the assassin’s eyes for only a moment, matched by a look of pure shock on Al’s face. Hawkeye went on grimly, “Fuhrer Mustang may die because of him. The least we can do for His Excellency is make this bastard suffer.”  
  
Ed grinned wickedly, spitting, “Hear that? Nobody’s going to save you!”  
  
Al persisted, “Brother…”  
  
There was a sharp crack and the assassin started laughing, spitting the broken remains of what looked like a tooth to the ground. His body began to convulse, his mouth starting to foam.  
  
“What the…?” Ed breathed.  
  
“No!” Hawkeye cried, shoving Ed off of the assassin and hauling the man to his feet by his collar. “You cowardly bastard!”  
  
“What is it?” Al asked, frightened.  
  
“A poison pill,” Hawkeye said. “Hidden in a false tooth.”  
  
She returned her attention to the assassin, shaking the twitching man violently. “Who sent you? Who wants the Fuhrer dead?”

The man’s face split into a wicked grin, glee in his eyes. “Your day of reckoning is coming, Fuhrer’s dog. It will come for all of you.”

“Day of reckoning?” Hawkeye demanded. “What are you talking about?”

The assassin laughed. “The phoenix will rise, and you and your precious Fuhrer will burn in the fires of hell!”

One final spasm, and he was dead.

Hawkeye dropped the body, stomach heaving, before the words truly sunk in.

_You and your precious Fuhrer will burn in the fires of hell._

Only one, desperate thought ran through Riza Hawkeye’s mind.

_Roy._


	3. Shadows and Flames

Two things woke Mustang from his feeble slumber.

The first was the agonizing pain in his shoulder. It felt like someone had tried to saw his arm off with a dull knife and given up halfway through. Whatever painkillers the doctors had given him, they weren’t nearly enough.

The second was the familiar reek of cigarette smoke.

“Those things will kill you, you know,” Mustang told Havoc without even opening his eyes.

“Yeah, well, so will blood loss. That didn’t stop you,” Havoc replied. Mustang opened his eyes to glare at his subordinate, who offered him a crooked, distinctly unapologetic grin.

“Where’s the rest of the team?” Mustang demanded suddenly, realizing that Havoc was the only one of his faithful team in the room with him. Had something happened to them?

“Getting lunch, probably,” Havoc replied, immediately soothing Mustang’s concerns. “Armstrong had to drag Hawkeye along with them, but they should all be in the cafeteria.”

Mustang sighed in relief. So no one had died, thank god. Havoc went on, “And you wonder why the tabloids say you and Hawkeye are together. She’s hardly left your room in three days. Rebecca had to come up here and force her to go shower yesterday.”

“Three days?” Mustang asked tiredly.

“Yeah,” Havoc nodded. “It was touch and go for a while. You know me, sir, I’m not a feelings kind of guy…but I was worried. We all were.”

Mustang smiled despite himself. “Jean Havoc, giving a shit about something besides women and cigarettes? Maybe I did die after all.”

Havoc grinned. “Laugh it up. Just remember who’s had your back all these times you’ve tried to die.”

“That would be Hawkeye,” Mustang replied. Havoc laughed again.

“Our king’s nothing without his queen,” Havoc chuckled. “I’ll go get her. We both know whose shining face you want to see, and let’s face it, it’s not mine.”

He turned and left, leaving Mustang alone with his thoughts and the sharp pain in his shoulder.

This was really not how he’d anticipated the beginning of his administration going, and if he was honest with himself, he was annoyed. All his careful politicking to get himself to this point, all his vigilance and scheming and planning, and he had nearly gotten gunned down at a _parade_.

He would have been gunned down, had Hawkeye not acted. Yet again, his adjutant had saved his life at the cost of risking her own.

Nothing he could ever do would be enough to thank her for her quiet, tireless service. He could lavish her with promotions and praise and anything she wanted, and nothing would be enough.

The only thing that could come close, he thought bitterly, was the feel of their bodies moving together as they once had, the sound of his name on her lips, the three words that had lodged in his throat every time he’d tried to speak them. Those days, innocent, childish days, were gone, never to return.

Part of him despised himself for it, for gaining the position of Fuhrer at the cost of the one thing he’d ever wanted more.

Footsteps pulled him from his thoughts, rapid footsteps coming down the hall. Hawkeye ran into the room, Armstrong and Havoc in tow.

She stopped at the threshold, amber eyes wide as they met Mustang’s. An emotion Mustang couldn’t place flitted through them – relief? Regret? Joy?

“Sir,” Hawkeye managed, voice strangled. She saluted. “I’m so glad to see you’re awake.”

“At ease, Major,” Mustang smiled. “You’ve saved my life yet again. I think that warrants thanks.”

She flushed red. “I was just doing my duty, sir. Had I done it well, you wouldn’t have been shot.”

“Oh, what devotion!” Armstrong cried, tears streaming down his face as he pulled Hawkeye into a crushing hug. “What undying loyalty! What pure faithfulness! Every soldier should strive for such admirable dedication to our beloved Fuhrer!”

Hawkeye glared up at him, cheeks now scarlet as she pushed herself away from Armstrong’s vice-like embrace. “All I did was fail to protect His Excellency from an assassin. No one should strive to be anything like me.”

“Give yourself a break,” Havoc rolled his eyes. “We all fucked up. I have no idea how he got through our security, but that wasn’t just on you.”

“Unlike you, I actually care!” Hawkeye snarled, turning on Havoc with fire in her eyes. “This isn’t like before the war, Havoc. We can’t fool around and fake our way to a happy ending. Mistakes these days will get the Fuhrer killed!”

Havoc took a step back, surprised at his friend’s fury, before retorting, “You think I’m not taking this seriously? You’re not the only one who hasn’t slept since the parade! Just because we haven’t been chained to the chief’s side doesn’t mean we haven’t been investigating this. Give us some fucking credit!”

“I will when you earn it!” Hawkeye yelled, trembling with anger. The last time rage had overtaken her like this, she thought Mustang and the very man she was shouting at had been murdered by a Homunculus. It was a terrifying, liberating feeling, this overwhelming anger. “Maybe if you and the rest of the team had spent time _preparing_ instead of making bets and drinking, this wouldn’t have happened!”

She’d crossed a line, she knew immediately. She knew it as soon as the wary concern in Havoc’s eyes fled in favor of something hard and cold. His jaw clenched, crushing his cigarette between his teeth.

“That’s enough!” Mustang barked as Havoc opened his mouth to say something equally cruel and obviously false. “Major! Captain! Enough!”

Both turned to look at their commander, who had struggled into a seated position. Mustang went on, pain in his voice as he clutched his bandaged shoulder, “Infighting isn’t going to get us anywhere. I can’t have my team at each other’s throats when we need to be on our guard.”

Havoc looked abashed, looking at the ground and mumbling an apology, while a wave of nauseating guilt buffeted Hawkeye. Havoc was one of her closest friends and a damn good man and soldier, despite his vices. Losing control was unlike her, and she regretted the harsh things she’d said.

Mustang’s lips quirked in a small smile when he saw his subordinates’ anger replaced with more than a little shame. “Now. I need a debriefing on everything we know.”

Hawkeye and Havoc nodded as one. Hawkeye reported, “We didn’t get much information from the assassin.”

Mustang frowned, confused. “You used the past tense.”

Hawkeye sighed and reluctantly admitted, “He’s dead. Killed himself with poison.”

The Fuhrer cursed, frustrated. “So much for that. What did you get?”

Hawkeye repeated the assassin’s chilling words, burned into her brain despite her best efforts to shake them from her thoughts.

“That’s not good,” Havoc said, hearing them for the first time.

“No. It’s not,” Hawkeye shook her head. “This speaks of a bigger conspiracy than just a lone gunman.”

“Of course,” Mustang grumbled, rubbing his forehead with his good hand. “That’s all we have? A couple of cryptic threats and a dead assassin?”

Hawkeye and Havoc exchanged a glance full of meaning. Mustang immediately demanded, “What else do we know?”

Hawkeye shook her head, a strange emotion in her eyes, so Havoc sighed and said, “He was Ishvalan.”

“Fuck!” Mustang spat, glaring down at his bedsheets. “There’s no time to waste, then.”

“What’s our plan, Chief?” Havoc asked.

Mustang was silent, brow furrowed deeply as his thoughts raced. Things were more complicated now that he was Fuhrer; he couldn’t act or react solely based on the needs of him or his men.

Finally, he said, “We’ll take a three-pronged approach. Hawkeye, you will be investigating the breach of security at the parade. We need to make sure that none of the upper ranks are involved in this conspiracy.”

“Sir,” Hawkeye nodded.

“Havoc, you and the boys are in charge of the safety of any Ishvalans living in or near the capital. If… _when_ …word gets out that the assassin was Ishvalan, there could be hate crimes. That’s the last thing we need right now,” Mustang went on.

“You got it, boss,” Havoc agreed. “What about what the assassin said, though? If there’s a conspiracy, we can’t just wait for them to try again.”

“That’s why Fullmetal is still a State Alchemist,” Mustang replied with a smirk. “Let’s inform him and Alphonse that a trip to Ishval is in their near future.”  
  
“I’ll let them know right away,” Armstrong said.  
  
The three soldiers turned to leave, but Mustang called, “Hawkeye. Hold on a moment.”  
  
“Sir?” she asked, turning back to face him.  
  
“I need to make a public appearance,” Mustang said. “Can you organize that for me?”  
  
“You’re in no condition to make any kind of appearances right now,” Hawkeye shook her head. “A few days ago we thought we were about to bury you. Please don’t overdo it, sir.”  
  
“The country knows I was shot. They need to know I’m all right,” Mustang persisted. “The people will panic and the generals will start vying for power if I don’t prove I’m still alive.”  
  
“Told you we should’ve told the press about his condition,” Havoc grumbled.  
  
Hawkeye hesitated before reluctantly nodding. “Yes, sir. I’ll speak to your doctors and the press immediately.”  
  
“I assume General Armstrong has taken command in my absence?” Mustang asked.  
  
“Yes, my dear sister has kept the wolves at bay,” Armstrong nodded. “Shall I fetch her, sir?”  
  
“I don’t think anyone really fetches the General,” Mustang chuckled. “I would like to see her, yes.”  
  
Armstrong nodded and the trio of soldiers left, leaving Mustang alone with his thoughts.  
  
An Ishvalan assassin. He should have expected as much – he was the “Hero of Ishval,” now the Fuhrer of Amestris, and neither one of those were popular titles with the people of Ishval. Still…he had spent the years since the Promised Day in Ishval, trying to heal some of the terrible wounds he had caused.  
  
Apparently, it was too little, too late.  
  
No doubt his generals were going to leap on this once word got out, accuse him yet again of being too soft on Ishval. Push him to burn it to the ground once more.  
  
Just because he was Fuhrer didn’t mean he could erase all traces of Bradley’s influence, try as he might.  
  
Breaking up his team made him nervous, loathe as he was to admit it. His unit functioned best together, playing off each other’s strengths and weaknesses, dominating the board until all the enemy could do was concede checkmate.  
  
This felt like spreading the same number of pieces across multiple boards and hoping to win just the same. But it had to be done. There were too few soldiers he trusted and too much to do, if this was a rising rebellion as he suspected.  
  
Hawkeye, his fearless queen, would investigate the security breach, exposing any treason in the process. She feared nothing and no one beyond a threat to her team; no generals could intimidate her into hiding what she had found.  
  
The rest of his team would protect the Ishvalans. Not only was this a good political move – it would prove he cared for their safety, dampening any fires of rebellion – it was the right thing to do. The last thing he needed or wanted were race riots in Central. His men were an affable bunch, most likely to be accepted by the wary Ishvalans as help.  
  
The Elrics would go to Ishval and investigate the potential rebels. They were tenacious, loyal, and honest to a fault – they would stop at nothing to expose a group trying to threaten the stability of the country. Mustang wished there was another way, a way that could give Fullmetal the peace he deserved with his young family, but this would have to do.  
  
He trusted the Armstrongs and their men with anything else he might need, but beyond that…he had been shot and stabbed enough times to know better than to freely give away his trust. Many of his highest-ranking officers had been soldiers under Bradley, had warmed to Grumman’s and then his administration far too quickly to be genuine.  
  
There was nothing Mustang hated more than playing chess against an invisible enemy, one with far too many pieces to make it a fair fight. And yet, here he was.  
  
Again.  
  
Hawkeye returned shortly, helped him dress in his uniform and stumble to his wheelchair, and pushed him to the lobby, where a throng of reporters waited.   
  
Mustang put on a smile and blustered his way through the interview, laughing off his injury as though he hadn’t nearly died. He knew his generals and his assailants would see right through it.  
  
He counted on it.  
  
Let them underestimate him.  
  
Shadows only make fires burn brighter.


	4. Scattered Embers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait!

“Brother, wake up. We’re in Ishval!” Al shook Ed awake and picked up his suitcase.  
  
“Ugh,” Ed grumbled, rubbing his eyes. The train ride had been long and boring, despite the pack of cards Breda had given them as a send-off gift. “Do we have to? Can’t we just go home?”  
  
“This is an important assignment,” Al said gravely. “We can’t let the Fuhrer down.”  
  
“If it’s so important he should’ve come here himself,” Ed scowled, picking up his own suitcase and following Al. “Or sent one of his other underlings.”  
  
“He almost died!” Al protested. “Aren’t you worried?”  
  
Ed waved off his concern, blasé, as they stepped off the train, before leading the way out of the station.  
  
Al suppressed a smile – Ed might be the older one, and they may both have grown a lot in the years since the Promised Day, but some things would never change. Ed’s tendency to hide his worries behind bravado and complaints was one of those things.  
  
They were both concerned for Mustang and their other friends back in Central. As much as Ed and Fuhrer Mustang pretended to get on like oil and water, they were friends, and seeing their country’s leader weak and feeble in a hospital bed had shaken Ed.  
  
So when Armstrong had passed on the word that Mustang needed them to go to Ishval, they had accepted the mission. Ed had complained, of course – his and Winry’s firstborn was due soon – but he had come around. Any rebellion from Ishval would affect the whole country, and the safety of his young family was the most important thing to Ed.  
  
“No greeting party?” Ed asked as they left the station.  
  
“Hawkeye said there probably wouldn’t be one,” Al replied. “She gave me directions to his office, though.”  
  
He pulled the paper from his pocket, leading the way through the bustling streets to Scar’s headquarters. Ishval had come a long way in the few years since the Promised Day – Mustang had pushed hard for Amestrian aid to the region during his term as head of Eastern Command, and even harder as Fuhrer.  
  
Buildings were being raised everywhere and children ran through the streets, giggling and playing without fear of war. Women in small groups laughed and talked in front of vendors’ stalls while men haggled over prices.  
  
Al smiled. “There’s so much joy here. Everything is so vibrant.”  
  
“Yeah. I can’t believe a few years ago it was a war zone,” Ed agreed, looking around. “Maybe Colonel Bastard did some good after all.”  
  
“You really ought to stop calling him that,” Al scowled. “He’s a good man.”  
  
“Eh,” Ed shrugged. “He doesn’t need any ego boosts.”  
  
Al nodded up at the building they stood in front of. “We’re here.”  
  
The building was small and run-down, bullet holes from the war still marring its façade. Despite the appearance of the building, a small, official-looking sign reading “City Hall” graced the wall above the main door.  
  
Ed pushed the door open and led the way inside.

* * *

 “Your Excellency, I must insist – ”  
  
“No.”  
  
A collective sigh of frustration pervaded the meeting room. Mustang sat at the head of the table, surrounded on all sides by his generals. He hated most of them, in truth; too many were holdovers from Bradley’s administration. He certainly didn’t trust any of them as far as he could throw them.  
  
“Why not?” General Carthin, one of Mustang’s least favorite generals, demanded.  
  
“Because I am your Fuhrer and the military is under my command, not yours!” Mustang snarled, clenching his good hand into a fist.  
  
“It’s because you’re soft on Ishval!” Carthin accused, jabbing a finger at Mustang. “You never had the guts it takes to be Fuhrer, especially not when it comes to  that damned hellhole!”  
  
Mustang rose from his chair, fury all but crackling in the air around him. “Allow me to show you, then, the softness and mercy I showed Ishval!”  
  
Everyone’s eyes widened as Mustang pulled his ignition gloves from his pocket. He glowered at Carthin, ready to incinerate the man.  
  
There was a heavy sigh from the far end of the table. “Are you quite done, Mustang?”  
  
Everyone’s eyes turned to the speaker. Olivier Armstrong was lounging in a chair, her feet up on the table as she inspected her fingernails. She looked up, scoffed at the squabbling men, and said, “It’s a wonder anything gets done in this country. Look at our leaders, arguing like children.”  
  
Mustang let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, feeling the homicidal rage ebb. Olivier went on, “Some time at Briggs will do you good, matchstick. You clearly need help building a thicker skin. Even the mention of Ishval has you more ready to fight than a Drachman wardog.”

Disapproving whispers flitted around the table. “How dare she speak to the Fuhrer in this manner?”

Olivier’s blatant insubordination and disrespect were practically her trademark. Mustang understood. For his part, Mustang smiled a little, nodding at the general and hoping it would express his thanks to her. He felt more than a little vulnerable with a wounded arm and without his adjutant at his side, and it had gotten to him. Olivier’s harsh words had dragged him back into line.  
  
“I will not send troops to Ishval,” Mustang said, hoping the firmness in his tone and the look in his eyes would discourage any further arguing from his generals. “The region is still too volatile. We’ve been making progress, yes, but we’d lose everything if I march into Ishval. I have no desire to carve any more seals of blood.”  
  
There was disgruntled grumbling, but slowly, eventually, the generals nodded their agreement. Carthin still glared at Mustang but made no further arguments.  
  
Mustang smiled – he had forced them into submission, for now. “Good. I’m glad we’re in agreement. You are dismissed.”  
  
As soon as they were gone, Mustang sunk back into his chair, rubbing his forehead with his good hand. He truly, honestly wasn’t sure he could keep his generals in check on this issue. They were out for Ishvalan blood, many of them, despite his vow to never spill it again.  
  
Right now, he was critically weak, between his injury and his spread-too-thin team. If he wasn’t careful, he could lose it all.  
  
Well. He’d just have to be careful, then.

* * *

 “It’s a good thing you’re not a flame alchemist, Ri. You’d have burned a hole in the paper by now.”  
  
Hawkeye jumped, startled. Her pistol was out and pointed at the speaker before her thoughts could catch up and realize she knew that voice.  
  
Rebecca was standing there, hands up in surprised surrender. “Easy. I didn’t mean to scare you.”  
  
“Sorry. It’s been a rough few days,” Hawkeye said, holstering her gun.  
  
“I’ll say. How are you holding up?” Rebecca asked, concern in her eyes.  
  
Hawkeye offered the best fake smile she could, knowing her best friend could see right through it. “I’m all right.”  
  
Rebecca scowled. “Cut the bullshit, Ri.”  
  
“I…failed. It’s my duty to protect the Fuhrer and I failed,” Hawkeye admitted, eyes falling so she could stare at her boots instead of the worry on her friend’s face. “I’m a disgrace.”  
  
“Hey, you know that’s not true,” Rebecca said, coming to hug Hawkeye tightly. “You did your best. No one faults you for that.”  
  
“Then my best isn’t good enough, and I should resign!” Hawkeye shoved Rebecca away, squeezing her eyes shut.  
  
She immediately regretted it.  
  
All she could see was Mustang on the ground, collapsed in a pool of his own blood, reaching feebly for her as she ran after the assassin. Her eyes flew open, welling with tears.  
  
“Riza?” Rebecca demanded.  
  
“I’m fine!” Hawkeye insisted, roughly brushing the tears away. She took a breath, put her calm façade back on, and said, “I’m investigating the security breach at the parade. I could use some help, if you want.”  
  
Rebecca looked surprised for only a moment before smiling. “Of course I’ll help. Just for you, though. Don’t want you to get any ideas that I care about Mustang.”  
  
Hawkeye chuckled despite herself. Rebecca pulled up a chair and they sat down at Hawkeye’s desk to look at the mountain of papers.  
  
“So, what are you thinking? Found anything so far?” Rebecca asked.  
  
Hawkeye shook her head, pursing her lips with frustration. “Nothing. My gut tells me it’s a coup attempt, that one of the generals did it…but nothing fits. I can’t find anything to point to them.”  
  
“Who was in charge of security?” Rebecca asked, glancing at the stack of paper Hawkeye handed her.  
  
“The team, primarily, but we couldn’t do it all. General Armstrong was in the parade, so we couldn’t talk to her. The Fuhrer picked a few higher-ups he thought we could trust to help us – General Hawthorne, General Howe, and Colonel Cavanaugh,” Hawkeye answered, pulling their files from the mess of paper.  
  
“They’re good men,” Rebecca said. “I served under General Howe in Ishval. You really think one of them would betray Mustang?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Hawkeye sighed. “I don’t want to believe it. They’re the best men we have. They were among the first to renounce Bradley and have been supportive of both administrations since then. If one of them did this…then there’s truly no one outside of the team we can trust.”  
  
“You’re playing with fire here,” Rebecca warned. “If someone high up in the ranks did this, they’ll find out you’re investigating them. It won’t be pretty, even though Mustang has your back.”  
  
“I’ve always played with fire,” Hawkeye said, an old ache surging through the burns on her back. “If this is what I have to do to protect the Fuhrer, I will.”  
  
“Just be careful,” Rebecca pleaded. “There’s been too much death in Amestris. I don’t want to have to bury you, too.”  
  
“You know me, Becca. I’m too stubborn for that,” Hawkeye replied, a small smile on her face.  
  
Rebecca tried to smile back and almost succeeded. She’d known Riza Hawkeye for too long – if there was one thing that could throw her off-balance, critically weaken her, it was Roy Mustang.  
  
Worse, she knew, their enemies knew that too.

* * *

 “You really think they’re just going to let us waltz in there without a fight?” Breda asked skeptically.  
  
“They’re Ishvalans, not junkyard dogs,” Havoc scowled. “They’re not gonna kill us for walking into their territory.”  
  
“But we’re soldiers,” Fuery said, nervous. “You know they don’t like us.”  
  
“Can you blame them?” Falman asked. “We just have to show we’re here to help and things will be fine.”  
  
“Well, we’re unarmed, so you better hope you’re right,” Breda grumbled.  
  
The four walked on, cautious, as they left the main boulevard and turned down a side street that would take them to the predominantly Ishvalan slum on the eastern edge of Central.  
  
They’d hardly taken two steps down the alley before a voice hissed, “I think you’re in the wrong neighborhood.”  
  
Fuery yelped as the men turned as one to face the speaker. A tall Ishvalan man appeared from the shadows in a storefront, arms crossed and fire in his eyes. Behind him, a woman glared at them from store’s doorway.  
  
Havoc immediately put his hands up in surrender and the others followed suit. Havoc said quickly, “We’re not here to cause any trouble. We want to help.”  
  
“I think Amestrian soldiers have helped the people of Ishval enough,” the man spat. “Get lost.”  
  
“Look, you don’t have to like us,” Havoc snapped. “But you have to let us help you.”  
  
“We don’t have to do anything, you filthy white dogs!” the man hissed, pulling a knife from his belt. “Except maybe send your heads back to your precious Fuhrer!”  
  
“Easy, pal!” Breda growled, hands instinctively clenching into fists.  
  
“Knock it off,” Havoc hissed, nudging his friend. He raised his voice and said, “Please, just hear us out. If you don’t, somebody’s going to get sent back here, probably with guns. We don’t want to hurt you.”  
  
“Is that a threat?” the man demanded.  
  
As Havoc sputtered for words, the man stalked closer to them, knife raised. Breda managed, “You really don’t want to do this.”  
  
“Your friends killed countless numbers of my people. I’m sure that I do,” the man said, drawing his arm back to strike.  
  
“Beni.”  
  
The man lowered his blade and all five men turned to look at the speaker. A woman stood there, arms crossed and a deep scowl on her face. She went on, “Beni, you’re not a cruel man. Why are you threatening them? They’re clearly unarmed and they’re not fighting back.”  
  
“They’re soldiers!” Beni protested.  
  
“So am I. Do you want to send my head to the Fuhrer?” the woman asked, eyebrow raised.  
  
Beni had no answer, so she went on, “You there. Blondie. What are you four doing here?”  
  
“Fuhrer Mustang sent us,” Havoc explained.  
  
“Why?” Beni demanded.  
  
“The man who shot the Fuhrer was Ishvalan,” Falman said. “He’s afraid there will be hate crimes.”  
  
The woman rubbed her temples. “Wonderful.”  
  
“What can you lot do?” Beni asked.  
  
“We want to meet with your leaders to plan for your people’s safety,” Fuery said. “The Fuhrer doesn’t want anyone hurt.”  
  
“If you think I’m taking you to our elders, you’re sorely mistaken,” Beni laughed darkly. “How do I know you’re not assassins?”  
  
“I’ll take you,” the woman said. When Beni looked scandalized, she went on, “If they try anything, I’ll kill them. Don’t worry.”  
  
“And why should we go anywhere with you?” Breda demanded. “Who the hell are you?”  
  
“Name’s Augustine Abrams,” the woman replied.  
  
Havoc cocked his head, confused and skeptical. “You’re not Ishvalan.”  
  
Augustine laughed. “I’m adopted. You coming, or not?”  
  
“You still haven’t said why we should trust you,” Fuery pointed out.  
  
“I was hoping the name would do it,” Augustine frowned. “Well, maybe this will convince you.”  
  
She slipped a hand into her pocket and pulled out a silver pocketwatch, swinging it back and forth.  
  
“You’re – ” Falman gasped. Augustine smirked.  
  
“They call me the Dragon Alchemist.” 


	5. Dragon's Den

“You’re a State Alchemist?”

Augustine put the pocketwatch away. “You look surprised. Now, will you trust me?”

The four men exchanged glances before Havoc nodded. “If you’ll take us to the people we need to talk to, I guess we don’t really have a choice.”

Beni started to protest again, but Augustine put up a hand to stop him. She scowled, “ _ Enough _ , Beni. You’ve trusted me before. Trust me now.”

He reluctantly nodded, heading back into the store he’d emerged from. Augustine sighed before turning back to the soldiers. “I meant what I said to him. If you try  _ anything _ funny, I will not hesitate to kill you.”

“We’re not here to cause trouble,” Breda huffed. “Enough with the threats.”

“You’re the Fuhrer’s team. I’ve heard enough about you to know that trouble seems to follow you around,” Augustine replied. She started to head down a side street, so the four men began to follow.

“Fair enough,” Falman admitted.

“Thank you,” Fuery added. “For taking us to the elders.”

“I’m not doing this for you,” Augustine replied. “The people of Ishval have gotten a shitty lot in life. I’m doing this for them.”

Havoc opened his mouth to argue but Breda elbowed him, shaking his head. The look in his eyes was clear – they didn’t need to piss off a potential ally.

The group followed Augustine in silence down increasingly dirty and cluttered streets. Women watched them from broken windows in dilapidated buildings, while groups of men huddled in the shadows glared at them.

They turned a corner to a run-down marketplace, where children were playing a game with an old, rusty can, kicking it back and forth as they ran around the grimy, abandoned market.

“I didn’t realize things were so bad,” Fuery said softly, looking around at the abject poverty that surrounded them.

“No one ever really does,” Augustine replied. “This isn’t even the worst of it. These people have homes. Most of them have jobs, even if they hardly pay.”

“It’s Auggie!” one of the children cried, seeing the little group of soldiers. They abandoned their game and ran over to her, enveloping her in hugs.

“Hey, kiddos,” the young woman smiled. “Why are you playing with cans again? I thought I gave you money for a ball.”

“You did,” the oldest child, a boy, said, his face falling. “But a policeman took it.”

“What?” Augustine demanded.

“I didn’t really hear all of it,” the boy said. “But he told Mama that he was going to take me away if she didn’t give him money. She didn’t have any…so I gave him the money you gave me so he’d leave her alone.”

Augustine rubbed her forehead. “Did you hear his name? What did he look like?”

“I don’t know his name. He…looked a little like that guy,” the boy pointed at Havoc.

Havoc made to protest, but Augustine waved him off. “I know it’s not you. But that isn’t helpful. He’s Amestrian, that’s all we know.”

“Sorry,” the boy mumbled.

“Don’t worry, bud,” Augustine smiled. “I’ll get it figured out. Here, let’s get you some more money so you can go get a ball this time.”

Falman was quicker to his wallet than Augustine was, handing a wad of bills to the boy. The child looked at the money, awed, before saluting Falman and running off, the other children in tow.

Augustine regarded the older soldier curiously. “You really didn’t have to. I’m an alchemist. I can afford it.”

“It sounds like you already do enough for them,” Breda said.

“Besides, they need to know that not everybody in the military is out to hurt them,” Fuery agreed.

The woman cocked her head, clearly intrigued by the team’s sentiment, before shrugging. “Maybe this new Fuhrer isn’t such a bad guy, if he keeps grunts like you around.”

Before Havoc or Breda could complain about being called “grunts,” Augustine continued walking, leading them deeper into the heart of the slums. The alleyways got narrower and filled with even more trash. The stench was overwhelming.

Fuery stopped, retching violently from the smell and the filth that surrounded them. Breda asked, “How do people live like this?”

“Many don’t,” Augustine replied darkly. She sighed. “Do you see why so many Ishvalans are resentful of the military and the Fuhrer?”

“We helped cause all this,” Falman said, shaking his head sadly. “In the war.”

The woman nodded. “It’s going to take a long time for the Fuhrer to make any headway here, no matter how good his intentions are.”

“We’re here to help,” Havoc said. “We’re going to. Whatever it takes.”

Augustine smiled. “Let’s get you to the elders, then. Their meeting should have convened by now.”

She led the way to a dilapidated bar, empty save for two armed men at the counter. They both raised their rifles as they heard the group’s footsteps, shouting in Ishvalan.

Augustine immediately raised her hands in surrender and the team followed suit. The woman said something in quick Ishvalan, her voice tense and urgent.

The two guards looked at each other, baffled, before one demanded something, gesturing angrily at the soldiers behind Augustine.

The only sounds Mustang’s men could pick out among the flurry of foreign words were “Fuhrer” and “Mustang.” The two guards scoffed and waved Augustine off, so she shouted something at them, fire in her green eyes.

There was a tense standoff for a moment, neither side willing to back down, before the guards reluctantly lowered their weapons and pointed at a door behind the bar.

The group went through the door, which revealed a narrow spiral staircase leading down. As they began their descent, Havoc asked, “What was that all about?”

“They were inviting us in for tea,” Augustine said, earning blank stares from the four men. She rolled her eyes and continued, “What do you think that was all about? They wanted to kill you. And me. They didn’t believe you were here to help, and called me a traitor.”

“What changed their minds?” Fuery asked.

“I reminded them that there’s a lot of families counting on me for money, and that I would never bring anything I thought could be a threat anywhere near the elders,” Augustine replied.

“Glad to hear you trust us,” Breda said.

“I don’t,” Augustine said. “But I’m an alchemist, and you’re unarmed.”

An awkward silence settled over the group as they continued heading down, the air growing cooler and heavier. After what felt like hours, they arrived at a rough-hewn door set into the stone wall.

“Follow my lead, and don’t say anything,” Augustine ordered, and the four men nodded. She pushed open the door, revealing a small, warmly decorated meeting room.

Several older men and women sat on cushions on the floor, which was covered with an intricate rug. A pair of guards jumped and ran towards the door, drawing weapons, but one of the women called out, shaking her head.

The guards retreated to their posts, still eyeing the group warily. Augustine bowed to the elders, going to hug the woman who had spoken for her. They spoke in quiet Ishvalan before the woman raised her voice and said in Amestrian, “Who are these men, dear one? Why did you bring them here?”

The other elders eyed her with a mix of curiosity and suspicion before Augustine said, “They are Fuhrer Mustang’s men.”

“The Fuhrer’s wardogs?” one of the men growled. “They should not be here! Send them away!”

“They have seen too much!” a woman cried, pointing angrily at them. “Kill them!”

“Enough!” Augustine snapped, receiving a surprised silence in return. “The Fuhrer sent them to help us.”

“Help us?” another man laughed bitterly. “Perhaps he should have thought of that before he destroyed Ishval in the war!”

The other elders murmured in agreement. Augustine paused, trying to gather her thoughts before she spoke again.

“Why is it so hard to believe we want to fix our mistakes?” Havoc demanded, stepping forward. Augustine whirled on him, clearly angry he hadn’t followed her order to not speak.

“Who are you to talk to us like this?” one of the elders hissed.

“I’m one of the Fuhrer’s top men,” Havoc blustered on, heart racing – he had spoken before he thought, as he always did, and now had to dig himself and the rest of the team from the hole he’d made.

“The leader of a pack of dogs is still a dog,” one of the men spat.

“And we should put them down like dogs!” a woman agreed.

“We’re the only help you’re going to get, so you’d better not waste it,” Havoc warned. The elders exchanged meaningful glances before returning their glares to him.

“That sounds like a threat,” a man said, voice dangerous. “We don’t take kindly to threats to our people.”

“It’s not a threat, it’s a warning!” Fuery blurted out, voice thin and high. Everyone’s eyes turned to him, causing him to pale and scoot behind Falman.

Disgruntled murmurs in Ishvalan flitted around the room. Augustine ran to the woman she had embraced earlier, whispering something urgent in her ear. The woman was quiet while the others watched the exchange before she sighed.

“A warning about what, precisely?” the Ishvalan woman asked.

“Surely you can’t be taking them seriously! They’re dogs and spies, sent to distract us!” one of the men spat.

“A reminder that I am your equal on this council, Ahmad,” the woman said delicately, though her eyes were cold. “I wish to hear them out.”

“You’re blinded by your love for that Amestrian brat you took in!” Ahmad hissed, gesturing rudely at Augustine.

“I said the council will hear these men out!” the woman repeated, voice firmer. “My daughter’s lineage has nothing to do with this.”

Ahmad made to argue, but another man raised his hand to silence him. “Peace, Ahmad. Sakinda’s request is fair. We will hear what they have to say.”

The team let out a collective sigh of relief before Sakinda prompted, “Why have you come here? What do you have to warn us about?”

“You may have heard someone tried to assassinate Fuhrer Mustang,” Havoc said.

“Our only regret is that they failed,” Ahmad grumbled.

The man who had silenced Ahmad glared at him. “We are thankful for the Fuhrer’s efforts to repair the damage done in the war. Many of us respect and admire him. We praise Ishvalla that he will recover.”

“The assassin was Ishvalan,” Havoc went on.

The elders let out various noises of surprise, exchanging looks and quiet words. Havoc continued, “The Fuhrer is afraid there may be hate crimes in retaliation. We want to protect your people from them.”

“The four of you?” Ahmad demanded. “How can you claim to protect us, when you could not protect your own leader?”

The words hurt just as badly as the man had hoped. Fuery and Falman winced, while Breda clenched his fists and Havoc’s jaw clenched. Finally Havoc regained control enough to grit out, “There are other troops who are loyal to the Fuhrer and his goals. We can set up a defensive perimeter in the area so they can keep watch.”

“Many in the Amestrian army may be loyal to the Fuhrer, but the wounds of war are deep. Are you certain these soldiers can be trusted to not fall victims to their own prejudices?” Sakinda asked.

“Their commander’s second-in-command is of Ishvalan blood,” Havoc said. “The men of Briggs don’t discriminate.”

“Relegating the great General Armstrong to guard duty will thrill her, I’m sure,” Augustine snorted.

“Please let us help!” Fuery cut in, when it was clear Havoc was done talking. “We know the military has done horrible things, but we want to make it right.”  
  
“The only way you dogs can make it right is to die,” one of the women grumbled.  
  
“Peace, Aleena,” Sakinda scowled. “My friends, we have heard what these men have to say. It is time we decide – do we trust their help, or do we risk the cost of rejecting their aid?”  
  
There were quiet whispers between the elders before Ahmad shouted something in furious Ishvalan, sending chills straight down Havoc’s spine. He’d picked up enough Ishvalan in the war to recognize the word “hostage;” he instinctively reached for the gun he’d left in the office. He wasn’t going to let himself or the other men be used as pawns against their leader.  
  
Several of the other elders nodded, murmuring agreement. Ahmad took a breath to go on when a heavy, exasperated sigh became audible.  
  
Everyone turned to the source of the sigh – Augustine, now lounging in an empty chair. She scowled and said, “Would I really bring a threat to your security here? I would have died years ago if not for the Ishvalan people. Your blood is my blood. I will not see any more of it spilled, particularly because you have your heads up your asses. Your choices are trust them or die. Is it really such a hard decision?”  
  
“You insolent brat!” Ahmad spat. “You have no right to speak! You’re scheming with them! I knew the moment you became a State Alchemist we could no longer trust you.”  
  
Augustine had scarcely opened her mouth to argue when the door to the meeting room burst open. One of the guards from the bar above stumbled forward, breathless, and blurted out, “There’s an Amestrian with a gun outside! He took Kalla hostage!”  
  
The only sound in the room was that of the five soldiers breathing as one, “Well, fuck.”


End file.
